


Shake hands forever

by Hypatia_66



Series: All in honour [5]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, House of Vanya, Movie: The Return of the Man from U.N.C.L.E., Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 13:41:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11829891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: To mend a broken heart and a broken friendship. A follow-up to Kismet.





	Shake hands forever

**Shake hands forever**

**Prologue. 1968. Come let us kiss and part**

He was in a very deep, dark hole. No light seemed to penetrate into his mind and give him back his insouciance, or his love of life. He had become an automaton, acting out the part he had played so successfully for so many years. No-one seemed to notice, so it worked for a while.

But before his eyes, every moment of the day, and in his nightmares, was the sight of that execution squad. It wasn’t as if it hadn’t happened before. They had been rescued at the last minute many times, but this time even his partner had run out of useful tactics – he had stood apparently unmoved, not reacting to anything; numb. It had been sheer chance that it had been called off. They might have died. It wasn’t the dying, though. It was the nightmare helplessness. In a way, he _had_ died.

Even from his pit of despair, he briefly wondered if his partner too had been damaged by that last affair, and was suffering in the same way. He dared not ask for fear of being judged for his sudden weakness, even by the one person he knew he could trust.

His partner appeared to be unaware of his state of mind. He didn’t seem to be as engaged as he had been in their long working relationship, or even their friendship. He had somehow lost enthusiasm for the cause. Something had changed just in the past few months – since the brain-washing episode, and the torture episode. He had lost his youthfulness, his excitability; he had grown up, filled out; even his mouth had a more adult, complacent set; and his jaw jutted more, not defiantly but assertively. He didn’t take orders lightly. There was less fun, fewer jokes; more seriousness; and he was definitely more dangerous.

He was sitting there, now, reading – always reading. He looked up and said something, and looked baffled to get no response from the man opposite who was staring at him, looking through him.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“An article on new developments in computing. It looks interesting: in future, everyone might be able to have their own personal one. We could have them in the office; there’d be no need to ask people to look things up for us in paper files.”

“Oh.”

His partner sighed. It wasn’t his thing either, but it was still interesting. Think of the possibilities!

“There’s quite an interesting article on using them in fashion design, too.”

“ _Not_ my thing, tovarisch. Sorry.”

He opened a file on his own desk, and his partner returned to his journal, mildly shaking his head.

****************

They went their separate ways for lunch, and he returned to the office alone. His partner had been sent off on some local mission or other. He couldn’t remember.

He saw the journal lying on his partner’s desk and reached for it. Might as well have a look.

Actually, it _was_ quite interesting. He got to the back pages and found there were adverts for jobs in the field, and became engrossed. For the first time in weeks, the darkness lifted and with it, just a little, his depression. Had he found a way out?

******************

When the offer came through, he was jubilant. He almost bounced into headquarters. Their shared office was empty, so he went straight to see the Old Man. He emerged slightly crushed, but not enough to dampen his mood. On his return to the office, he found his partner sitting at his desk, reading as usual.

“I’m going now,” he announced. Something in the finality of his tone got through. His partner stood up, his brow wrinkling.

“What do you mean? Where? We haven’t been assigned to anything.”

“I quit. I’m off – leaving – for good. This is Goodbye, old friend.”

Suddenly realising the import of what he had said, his partner’s face went white. “But – what – where?” he stammered, his eyes wide and hurt, his face suddenly so young.

“Got a new job – I’m sorry, tovarisch. I’ll be in touch sometime. Look after yourself.” He patted his pale cheek, shook his helpless hand, and bounced out, leaving the small figure standing alone, stunned. He heard his name called as he marched down the corridor, but he didn’t turn back, and no-one followed him.

**************************************

**Chapter 1. 1983. Nay, I have done, you get no more of me**

Still youthful, his sun-streaked hair untouched by frost, Vanya’s age showed in an inexplicable bitterness that had recently begun to draw lines in his face. Increasingly quick to anger, impatient, sarcastic, he could nevertheless be endlessly kind and helpful to anyone who tried hard, or whom he liked. There must have been several of those because his staff adored him.

It didn’t, however, include the former partner in his old life who had left him high and dry with no explanation. He had never spoken of him or, for that matter, the Organisation he had worked for, especially since Yugoslavia. So, why were they trying to contact him now? He wouldn’t answer. He wasn’t to be found; didn’t want to be found; refused to come to the phone. It had been too long and no-one had ever tried to make contact before; there could be no forgiveness for betrayal.

******************

It had taken long enough to get this show together. Working up to 20 hours a day for weeks, Vanya looked drained, and now he had a client to see. His chief assistant, Mathilde Delon, was more than capable of taking charge; and, much as she liked and admired him, she would be quite glad to see the back of him for a while. As well as refusing to take any calls, he had been unusually impatient and had snapped everyone’s head off all week.

He was feeling conscience-stricken, however, and before leaving he took her aside and apologised. She smiled and patted his arm, used to his short fuse. He never complained if she answered back, was never arrogant or conceited. “Allez-y,” she said. “Go on, I’ll deal with the show and the punters.”

“Thank you, Mathilde. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Well, I’m here. Enjoy your lunch. We’ll see you later. When do you expect to be back, if anyone asks?”

“You know how this client talks,” he said. “Late afternoon? Say about 5.00. À bientôt, Mathilde. See you soon.”

“À bientôt, mon ami.”

She watched him leave. A whirlwind of furious energy, even in what must be his late forties. Whether he really thought it was worth expending so much of it on the client he was about to see, was another matter. She suspected he needed a more active outlet for this dangerous fire. It sometimes seemed to turn inwards; she feared it might consume him. Her aunt had always said the business wouldn’t be enough for him after the life he had led.

He wasn’t much like other fashion designers, certainly. Mathilde knew almost nothing about his previous life, only that it had been more unhealthy than is usual for couturiers – she had glimpsed strange scars when he wore an open-necked shirt, or when he rolled up his sleeves. He was unlike other designers in other ways, too. She had heard about and seen him occasionally with attractive young women, who certainly hadn’t been for show; not that he was very constant in his affections; they changed with some regularity. Neither elegant nor dapper, he could nevertheless be very stylish, like most designers, but also sometimes quite scruffy, which was no doubt quite endearing to some girls. He also went regularly to the gym, which no doubt endeared him in other ways. He kept up his pilot’s licence, too, and had once taken her up with him for a flight over upstate New York, which had been great; and she had also sometimes detected the smell of oil and gunpowder in his clothes when he arrived late at work, so she knew he practised at an indoor shooting range. These were slightly strange hobbies for a fashion designer, but for fifteen years that overflowing energy had helped to grow and maintain a successful international brand.

******************

**Chapter 2.** **And when we meet at any time again …**

This silly woman and the ridiculous staff outfits she’d asked for. Trying to flirt with me, too – good grief. What possessed me to tell her I’d never been married? And, to cap it all suddenly, when I looked past her, there at the bar was my former partner and erstwhile friend. What was _he_ doing here? He’d changed in appearance a bit in fifteen years, but not apparently his ability to attract a retinue of followers. But they were – Christ, KGB! – and surprise, surprise, there was an outbreak of violence.

Of course, I joined in – couldn’t just leave him to it, he didn’t look quite up to it. You can’t fight in a smart suit like that. I have to admit it wasn’t quite as easy as it used to be. It hurt more too.

He didn’t seem at _all_ surprised to see _me_. My first reaction to seeing _him_ after the initial surprise was, strangely, pleasure so I followed him out like a lamb, completely forgetting about the never-married _Ms_ Whatshername; I even left my portfolio behind. He said he’d been looking for me, and the surprise and pleasure vanished and my anger resurfaced. I thought I was over it. Him just walking out like that, without telling me why. I still couldn’t ask him, but now he wanted _me_ to tell him why _I_ left, when he obviously knew why. He was asking about Yugoslavia and Janus. Oh God. It’s never left me. I couldn’t speak. I lost my temper and hit him instead, and that helped, though it was hardly dignified behaviour between two middle-aged men. He pulled a face but accepted the blow, then smiled, and I could speak again; and he seemed to think that put us back on the old comradely footing.

He said he’d come to find me because the Organisation needed us both. I think it actually only needed him; it was only he who wanted me – I still don’t know why but in spite of myself, and under protest, I agreed to go along and see what they wanted.

The new offices were rich and rather overdone in polished wood and brass. It was still a maze of corridors with nameless doors off, but gone were the grey steel walls and sliding doors, the plain desks. Gone, too, were the beautiful girls who had decorated it – well, more than decorated; they were good, trained agents – and who were all these brash young men? What happened to equal opportunities and women’s lib? There were still lots of flashing lights and some quite sophisticated new computer technology, but the old courtesies had gone. Just because I was there, they took it for granted I would join them – took _me_ for granted in fact – and if I’d remembered which direction to take, I’d have walked out again. I told myself I just didn’t want to walk into a closet by mistake. It seemed that my former partner had had a better reception when he came, so he was a bit taken aback by it. Either they didn’t really want me, or it was because my failure in Yugoslavia (and my angry resignation) was still a stain on my record, though the Old Man had treated the whole thing with compassion. When I came back to New York, a year or two later, I went to see him and he was very kind. He died not long after. I’d have gone back for him, I think.

The new chief is very different; there’s less gravitas, he’s less all-seeing, less god-like. A bit weak. Perhaps I could see through it all, now I’m older. My interest waned further. Why did they need me? Why did _he_ need me? OK, it involved explosives – a bomb – but they already had someone in mind who could dismantle the thing.

And yet, I found myself agreeing to be dragged into something I didn’t want to do. The new problem was a serious business, after all, and there was some fairly serious kit to manage it with. One of the few women around was in charge of it. She was pretty devastating herself; pretty liberated, too, though she didn’t appear to have burned her bra.

*******************

I returned late, long after the show had closed. I didn’t expect anyone to be still there, so I was surprised to find Mathilde in the office.

“Still here?” I said, “Haven’t you eaten?”

“No. I was worried when you didn’t come back, and there was no word from you. I thought you might have had an accident. I thought I’d wait for a while.”

“I’m sorry. You needn’t have worried, but thank you. Come, I’ll take you out to dinner. I need to talk to you about something.”

“Did you get a commission from that client? – Oh, but where is your portfolio?”

“Damn. I left it in the restaurant – someone’ll have to collect it tomorrow – I was called away suddenly. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

I took her to a small Italian restaurant and we sat in a corner, as always, facing the door and the windows. I gave her an edited account of my activities since lunchtime, but its import was clear enough; I needed her to manage the business for a few weeks. I said I would try to keep in touch, but couldn’t guarantee when or even if this would be possible.

“Is this your past life come back to haunt you?” She asked, and I wondered what had I said to make her think so.

“What do you know about my past life? Did Chantal tell you something?”

“Only that it was dangerous.”

“It was.” I didn’t volunteer any other details, naturally.

“Are you going to be in danger now? You _will_ come back, won’t you?” she said, suddenly fearful.

“Of course. Don’t worry,” I said, more confidently than I felt.

***************************************

**Chapter 3:** **Be it not seen in either of our brows…** **(The Fifteen Years Later Affair)**

Anyway, my old partner went in one direction – Libya, it turned out – and I in another: I found myself not only abseiling down the side of a hotel and almost getting caught breaking in to bug a phone, but also flying a plane to Chicago, not to mention picking up a buckshee two thousand dollars for doing so. Not sure where that went to as the next thing was stripping off to swim miles underwater, following my quarry (the actor-fellow who knew how to dismantle the bomb) and his captors, into a huge cave system. I was told by my captor, later, that it was right under a nuclear reactor, which if true was a stupid place to build one. I thought they checked things like that. I guess it was just to frighten me (which it did).

The bomb was there, of course, and before we could deal with it, I got caught and hung up, along with the sweaty actor and his photographic memory. So much for my rescue efforts. Fortunately, I go to the gym a lot and can still manage the swing rings, though catching the explosive device on my shoes after I dropped it was a fluke. I didn’t tell _him_ that. So, we got out of that with just enough time to disarm the damned bomb, and incidentally for me to disarm and dis-life Janus. It was in a fight – not the kind of execution I have sometimes fantasised about, so I guess my conscience is clearer than it might have been. How he missed hitting me when he turned the submachine gun on me I’ll never know – those gas tanks didn’t offer much of a shield. Good thing they didn’t explode.

My partner seemed to have been fairly successful, though he caught a bullet rather than Sepheran. I suspect the mission took even more out of him than it did out of me. He was still trying to run a business as well as be a lothario and a special agent – and you can’t be any of those things if you’re not fit, eating badly, and gambling too much. He was not quite the man he was. Pity.

I caught sight of myself in a mirror at the airport in New York and thought maybe I wasn’t either. I hoped no-one I knew was around to observe the state I was in. I didn’t think there’d be anyone at the office, so I went there first to arrange to send all the gadgetry back, because nothing had changed: I wasn’t going back to the Organisation. Never again. But I should have gone home really, I was so tired.

****************************************

Mathilde was working late when she heard a noise in the outer office. She stood up as the door opened and there was Vanya. Moving stiffly, thinner, unshaven, tired, and remarkably scruffy, he looked in need of a haircut and his hands showed signs of bruising.

“Hallo,” he said, as if the last few weeks had been a mere two days.

“Hallo!” she replied, not hiding her surprise. “Have you just got back?”

“Just this minute, as you see,” he smiled, running a hand over his chin. “I thought I’d look in and see what’s what.”

“Have you eaten, are you hungry?”

“No, and very. But I must get rid of all this stuff and clean up a bit. Give me ten minutes. Could you find me some clean clothes?”

Over a late meal in the Italian restaurant, she brought him up to date with how the business had gone over the past weeks. He was clearly not going to volunteer anything about his own weeks away, so she had to ask.

“Long hours, some travel, some swimming, a lot of hanging about, a bit noisy,” was all he would say.

“Not a good break, then?”

“As a break, no – I’ve had better. But quite successful in other ways.”

******************

**Chapter 4: …** **That we one jot of former love retain**

He insisted that Mathilde take some leave, after working so hard for so long. She was grateful to take a few days off, and said maybe she would take a longer break later when things were less hectic. He saw her home in a taxi, before returning to his own apartment to sleep for a few hours.

The next day, after getting his hair cut, he was back at work. Planning for the next show was already under way, and his staff were glad to see him. Mathilde was a good substitute, the best, but not as fiery or quite as energetic as the real thing. The real thing, however, was tired. Whatever he’d been doing had worn him out – not being young as he once was – and he looked like death. They were concerned enough to persuade a brave colleague to approach him and tell him to go home.

“What?” He looked up, surprised and angered. The young designer quailed a little.

“Sir, it’s true, you look done in. We think you should go home.”

“ _Do_ we, indeed.”

At the look in his employer’s eye, the boy quickly added, “We’re concerned about you.”

“You’re very kind, but I’m fine.” It wasn’t quite a growl, just a controlled, jaw-clenched response.

“No sir, you’re not.” The young man stood his ground, aware of having awakened a tiger.

The tiger glared at him. Then he shook his head, as if to clear it, and slumped in his chair. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re probably right – not enough sleep. Can you manage without me for a bit?”

“Of course, sir. Is there anything I can get you – I mean, have you got anything to eat at home?”

How well they seemed to know him. Vanya closed his eyes, sighing, “I only got back last night, Peter; of course I haven’t got anything in.”

“Let me get you something from the deli before you go.”

Softened blue eyes lifted to his. “Why would you do that?” he asked.

“Um, because it’d be a pleasure, sir.”

The tiger gave in, and his young colleague went out to buy provisions for him. Nice kid, he thought, and then chuckled – brave too.

***************

He went home, drank a couple of pints of water, had a glass of wine with a meal, and slept the clock round. After a couple of days, his colleagues were relieved to see that he was back to normal. The whirlwind now swept all before him and the whole office was energised. He was everywhere, checking, criticising, praising. He spoke to his young mentor, and thanked him for his courage. “Did you draw the short straw?” he asked.

The young man laughed. “Not quite, sir. I’d have done it anyway,” and received a gentle smile in return.

Business now went on as usual.

His former partner now started to contact him from time to time and occasionally persuaded him to meet up for a drink, or even a meal. It wasn’t quite like old times – sometimes old resentments put a scowling complexion on the evening. Neither managed to initiate discussion of the fifteen-year break, and, rather like an estranged married couple, they were in need of a neutral go-between to crack and melt the film of ice that prevented them from renewing what had once been a warm relationship.

****************

**Chapter 5. Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath**

They were in this somewhat arctic state one evening, when the young designer, Peter, came looking for him. The Russian Café was known to be Vanya’s favoured restaurant – the staff, not being great fans of the KGB, having long forgiven the fracas. Finding him there, Peter was relieved not to have to search further, but he was a little embarrassed to observe that the two men were sitting silent, frowning and uncomfortable, looking into their respective glasses of vodka and scotch. This old friendship from Vanya’s mysterious past had been the subject of much interest and discussion at work, so it was a surprise to find that the atmosphere was so chill between them. His employer looked up when he approached, and smiled rather tightly. “Looking for me?”

“Yes, sir. Is this a bad time? – I didn’t mean to interrupt your evening.” He caught a rueful smile from the other man.

“You haven’t.” said Vanya, “Sit down.” He introduced him to his companion and said, “What will you have?”

Peter sat down a little gingerly. “Thank you, sir, I’d like a glass of white wine.”

The older men were (only just observably) amused. Peter saw them glance at each other, the coolness between them warming a little. His choice of alcohol might be insufficiently macho for these two old warriors, but if it improved the atmosphere between them, it was OK with him.

“What brings you in search of me?”

“Well, sir, it’s a friend of mine. He would like to meet you.”

Vanya’s eyebrows rose. “Why? Who is he?”

“He thinks he knows you. He’s Russian, sir, like you.”

“I’m Ukrainian,” he interrupted.

“Oh, sorry. Anyway, we were in art school together – he’s an illustrator. His name is Sergei Petrovitch Utkin …”

“Sergei Petrovitch...?” Vanya repeated, a startled look in his eyes.

“Yes. He’s been living in the States since he was a kid … sorry, what did I say, sir?”

“Nothing, it’s OK. Where is this Sergei Petrovitch now?”

“He’s over there, sir.” And Peter pointed to a young man sitting at the bar, watching them. He beckoned and Sergei Petrovitch slid down from his stool and came to join them.

“Zdravstvuy, Kolya – kak ty?” he said.

Vanya stood up suddenly and opened his arms, “Sergei!”

His companions gazed in astonishment as the two men embraced and kissed each other like long-lost brothers, and ignored them for several minutes as they talked.

“It’s good to see you, Seryozha – can I call you that now?”

Sergei laughed. “You remember that? What a brat I was.”

“Malenkii brat, da.” Vanya’s expression was taut.

“Little brother … Yes. It’s a long time ago, Kolya. I don’t think about it much, now.”

“How is your father?”

“He’s well, thank you. Still working, but not in that field any longer.”

Fascinated, the other two men observed the warmth between their respective friends: an old warmth, from the past. Even the parental-sized gap in their ages diminished. It was as if many years had fallen off them both, Vanya especially. They watched in some surprise when Sergei lifted Vanya’s right hand and pushed up his sleeve. Not something either of them, for different reasons, would have risked doing, themselves. They blinked when Sergei asked, “Is that the scar I gave you?”

“Could be. There are so many.”

They smiled reminiscently at each other, and Sergei said, “I was terrified.”

“I know you were. You did very well.”

“You taught me a lot. I grew up that day.”

“So did I, Seryozha.”

He turned to their audience, sitting looking on. “This is a wonderful surprise,” he said. “I think we should celebrate.”

“I hope you’ll tell us about it,” said his friend.

“Let’s get a menu and eat, then maybe I will.”

********************

**Chapter 6. Passion speechless lies**

He told only a part of the story over the meal: about meeting Sergei at his home near Zagreb, when Sergei was just a boy; that the mission had been a failure and, because he had subsequently resigned, he lost all contact with his employer and never found out what happened to Pyotr and Sergei afterwards.

Enlightenment began to dawn on Vanya’s friend. So, _this_ was the Yugoslavia affair. He was relieved when Peter, who was more likely to get a response, asked questions about the gaps in the story. The mission had been to get Sergei and his father away to Italy, and on to the USA; it had run into trouble and had to be aborted. Sergei looked at him. “More than trouble,” he said. Kolya/Vanya flushed.

“Yes. Sergei’s sister …” he swallowed, unable to continue.

“Kolya was betrayed,” said Sergei, “and she died. She tried to run away, and that man killed her.”

Vanya’s friend turned to him, and touched his arm. “You could have told me about it, you know.”

“I couldn’t. I can’t now,” he snapped, his resentment back. His friend looked only curious rather than hurt, but Peter was embarrassed for him because of the sharp tone. Sergei, who thought he understood Kolya’s reluctance, was less moved.

“Tanya was very observant,” he said. “There were things she understood that I only understood later – like I understood later how she felt about you, Kolya. I don’t think she would ever have blamed you.”

“Oh, but she did,” said Kolya. Sergei stared at him, and their companions once more felt themselves excluded from this bubble. “She said I would bring danger to her, and I did.”

“Nyet, nye tak – No, not so. _You_ didn’t bring it. _He_ did. It wasn’t your fault, Kolya. And your mission was successful in the end. We got away; we came to the States later, that’s all.”

“Tanya didn’t.”

“Kolya. Don’t.” Sergei leaned across the table and clasped his hand. “Please. We never blamed you, don’t blame yourself. Just remember how sweet she was.”

“Oh, Seryozha… I do.”

His memory contained the dead girl’s concern for him, her understanding of his confused loyalties, her gentle touch, her almost-expressed love, … her last embrace… and suddenly, to his dismay, his eyes filled, as they never had before. He covered his face. The bubble broke and he felt his friend’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Let’s all go back to my place and have coffee there,” he said, and summoned a waiter.

*********************

They had to wait for some elaborate checking of the door to be carried out before they could go in. Peter and Sergei entered the apartment in the wake of the two older men, and looked around enviously. It was quite grand, and oddly feminine, with knick-knacks on several surfaces, and rather lush décor. Its owner, correctly interpreting their expressions, smiled. “It used to belong to my Aunt Amy,” he said, “I inherited it when she died and haven’t bothered to change it much.”

“It suits you,” said Vanya, a little spitefully.

“Oh, indeed it does,” he agreed, heading for the kitchen to make coffee. “I’ll bring the vodka from the freezer, but, you two, if you’d like something else, help yourselves from the drinks cupboard.”

Despite comfortable chairs, drinks and coffee, restarting a conversation proved difficult. As ever, the most laid-back of the four broke the awkward silence by talking to Peter about his work at Vanya’s. He brought Sergei into the discussion, and Vanya himself was perforce drawn in. Before long, he was able to sit back and watch as his old friend relaxed and became animated. He poured more coffee, and listened, and wondered whether there was any possibility of getting back on the old footing with him. What was this Kolya business? Vanya, he could understand, but why was he so chary about the use of his real name and could barely utter his former partner’s, for that matter?

At the end of the evening, the two young men got up to leave. Sergei and Vanya hugged again, and exchanged a brotherly kiss. “Keep in touch, malenkii brat.”

Sergei smiled. “Of course I will. It’s been great to see you again.”

“Good night, Peter. I’ll see you tomorrow. Please keep this to yourself. You could put yourself in danger as well as Sergei and me, if that story gets out.”

“I won’t say a word,” he promised.

******************

**Chapter 7.** **When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death**

They were left alone together, with the remains of what had been a fairly convivial evening, despite everything.

“Great kids.”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask now – when I was first looking for you and couldn’t find you, are you using a different name? Your name isn’t Ivan, and why does Sergei call you Kolya?”

“Vanya is a good name for the business, so I call myself that, and I also spell my own name correctly now. And Kolya? Oh, just because I never told them my real name. I guess I ought …”

“Not even Tanya?”

Her name fell like a stone, the ripples it generated emphasising the gulf between them. Vanya/Kolya shivered. “No.”

“What happened between you?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing… that is, nothing deliberate. But then I was knocked out. She was underneath me when I fell – full-length – and, well… I don’t suppose she’d ever had a man on top of her before … and when I was bleeding from the boy’s accidental cut, she tidied me up, and helped with the bump on my head...” Vanya’s eyes closed, tight.

“She fell for you, right?”

His eyes flashed open. “She was young, susceptible – eighteen – half my age, for God’s sake.”

“Did you fall for her?”

“Of course not. I realised that she was … That she felt something for me, that’s all.”

“‘She loved me for the dangers I had passed…?’”

“Something like that. But I’m no Othello. I wasn’t in love with her.”

“Not in love, perhaps, but there was something.”

Blue eyes met hazel. “No, there wasn’t… No.”

An eyebrow lifted interrogatively.

“All right, of course there was something… Somehow – I don’t know how – she saw my doubts; she saw how wretched I was, and I didn’t even know it showed. She even recognised why I felt betrayed – and the worst betrayal hadn’t even happened at that point. She knew _me_.”

“‘… And I loved her that she did pity them.’”

“I’m _not_ Othello.” He looked up, “But I _was_ responsible for her death.”

“Sergei says not. But you’ve suffered all this time because of it. Wasn’t that love?”

“I don’t know... If she’d been older…” He shook his head. “What does it matter?” he whispered, “I could never commit to anyone, ever.” He sat looking at his hands, “My first design was for her.”

His friend sat silent, wondering how to approach the problem that lay between them, then Vanya spoke again. “But it wasn’t just because of her.” And he thought he could see an opening.

“He’s young enough to be your son, but you and Sergei embraced like brothers.”

He smiled a little. “Yes. He was a funny kid, quite likeable, but hostile to start with. Then, at the end – when it happened – he suddenly needed me, rather than his father. I’m not sure why.”

“When Tanya died, he needed you?”

The gold head nodded, and sank. “He wanted to stay with me.”

“Because of how his sister felt about you, my friend.”

A puzzled, “You think so?”

“And you treat him like a brother for the same reason.”

“What is this, a catechism?”

“ _We_ used to be like brothers…”

A troubled look crossed Vanya’s face.

“I haven’t got a sister who loved you, but couldn’t we be brothers again?”

Vanya gave a gasp like a sob, and put his head in his hands. Two bitter griefs…

It was an excuse to sit down beside him; he put an arm round the shaking shoulders, feeling less than laid-back, and stammering a little.

“Please... I wish… If you could forgive me... I can’t tell you how sorry I am about walking out on you – my dear friend – like that… I’d give anything to undo the hurt.”

He pushed a handkerchief into his friend’s hands. “There’s never been even the most beautiful, loving woman in the world I felt such affection for.” The shoulders calmed a little; he was listening. “I think we were both soul-sick after that last mission, fifteen years ago. I had to get away. I didn’t think you cared … I knew afterwards that you did, but I didn’t believe it – not then. It was only when I saw you again, saw it in your face, that I realised what I’d done.”

He gently stroked the glowing hair. Vanya sat up, abruptly.

“Stop it. I’m not going to kiss you, so don’t think it,” he said sharply, and blew his nose. “You’re not Russian.”

There was a chuckle. “OK, I can live with that.” He squeezed his shoulders in a brief hard hug and got up. “I’m going to make some more coffee.”

“I haven’t forgiven you yet. Make it tea.”

************************

**Epilogue:** **From death to life thou might’st him yet recover!**

They had arranged to meet at the Russian Café as usual, and it was while they were talking idly, over a news flash from the screen over the bar, that their communicators sounded. The old call to danger and excitement. They looked at each other.

There was no need to consult. They rose together and left.

================================

**Author's Note:**

> Title and chapter headings: from a sonnet by Michael Drayton (1563-1631)
> 
> Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part.  
> Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;  
> And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,  
> That thus so cleanly I myself can free.  
> Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,  
> And when we meet at any time again,  
> Be it not seen in either of our brows  
> That we one jot of former love retain.  
> Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath,  
> When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies;  
> When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,  
> And Innocence is closing up his eyes—  
> Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,  
> From death to life thou might’st him yet recover!
> 
> Zdravstvuy, Kolya, kak ty? – Hi, Kolya, how are you? Using the familiar, rather than the formal “you”
> 
> Shakespeare. Othello, Act 1, sc.3: Othello on his and Desdemona’s (mismatched and tragic) love.  
> “She loved me for the dangers I had passed. And I loved her that she did pity them.” 
> 
> Utkin: in Russian utka means duck.


End file.
